Excessive Zeal
by Kilroy of 1918
Summary: Hard lessons abound as a young hare's fantasies about glory and victory in the Long Patrol are dragged out into the light of harsh reality.
1. Chapter 1: All the World for the Taking

"You take it from me, laddie buck, you're livin' the good life now, don't cha know!" crowed Sergeant Merrithorn.

The sergeant loved taking the newer members of the Long Patrol on details through Mossflower, considering it the point at which their lives as defenders of the land truly began. This was the best chance for him to make sure that their interest was thoroughly stoked and the purpose of their mission in life realized to the fullest. What's more, this was a particularly special patrol, as none other than the revered lord of Salamandastron himself had agreed to journey forth with the recruits while garbed in full battle armored, and posing nothing short of a regal and majestic figure. Lord Olbrieg fully understood the importance of inspiring his legions, and unfortunately, the best method tended to be too unpredictable for casual use. The Bloodwrath was legendary, yes, but one couldn't very well send a message out to the vermin to come and get slaughtered just to give the new recruits an eyeful to get their pride going.

Merrithorn was, naturally, reluctant to stop chattering so long as his superiors weren't concerned that his mouth would give away the position of the entire group, and considering that the expedition was more of a parade than a proper military march, they weren't very likely to tell him to shut his muzzle any time soon.

"I still remember my first patrol! Excitin' times, wot! The bally vermin decided to try their paws at highway robbery and paid for it with their lives, every last one! Mice they were waylayin' were so thankful they practically overloaded us with scoff! Could have camped there for twice as bloomin' long if the captain weren't the type to listen to recruits bellyachin' about wantin' to go home!"

Finally, there was a long enough pauce for Bramble, the young private who was having his long ears talked off, to add a voice to the air that didn't belong to the verbose sergeant. He was enthusiastic enough to match his superior, his voice pitched high with youthful excitement, "I say, sah! I do so hope that I get such an adventure! Dad 'n' mum'll be so proud t'hear their son got to put his blade to some vermin rotters on his very first expedition out!"

Merrithorn laughed, nodding in agreement, "Good lad! And it'll be more than just your parents who'll be right proud of you. There's plenty a doe willin' to wag her eyelashes at a buck who's seen combat! But no matter what, just remember the reason that we're even out here is to protect those who can't protect themselves, don't cha know!"

"Yes, sah! I'll never forget that, sah!"

The sergeant's chest swelled with pride as he reflected not only on the noble goal of the Long Patrol, but also on the manner in which Bramble seemed to have taken the simple statement to heart already. Though as Bramble mimicked the action of his superior, hoping to cut just as proud a figure as the veteran hare, his reason for the sudden upwelling of his pride was a great deal less noble. He was certain that he would find nothing short of noble glory in the Long Patrol and relished that he'd made the cut that year. With pity Bramble spared a thought to all the cadets who'd yet to be allowed that prestige, and most especially to the friends he'd left behind when he set out on this march. Oh, but how jealous they would be! Bramble could just imagine the looks of envy on their faces as he told them of the battle he hoped would take place on this excursion.

Naturally, he imagined himself telling the tale in a most modest manner and emphasizing all the virtues of the Long Patrol, which would show through every last sword stroke. Yet even Bramble, however much he might try to delude himself into thinking otherwise, knew full well that he would enjoy being able to brag about the vermin he'd bested in the fairest and most honorable combat possible. There would be no sneaky feints or bushwhackings from behind for him! Only clean, straight, polished swordplay passed down by the best trainers for generations overcoming vermin brutishness.

_Oh I do so hope that I'll be able to slay a few! _Bramble daydreamed. _There's so many other hares here, it'd be a shame if they took all the fightin' for themselves and left me with nothing!_

However, a young, enthusiastic hare's mind was hardly a mighty river running through a narrow and focused course, but rather a streamlet prone to diversion from the slightest obstacle. So the current of his thought soon flowed into an entirely different branch.

_I'll bet it'll just be rats, but what if it isn't? I could get to fight somethin' really impressive like some horrible, snaggle-toothed stoat, or, heavens forbid, a big ole fox! Wouldn't that be a story? Some big, barbaric, ruddy great axe-wieldin' fox for my first kill! That'd turn more than a few heads!_

Bramble's face must have been downright glowing, because Merrithorn cracked a broad grin once more and leaned in close, giving the younger hare a hearty thump on the back. "That's the spirit, me young buck! Already thinkin' of the vermin you're goin' to give a thorough stompin' to? Just remember to keep your wits about you; bally vermin'll kill you as soon as look at you!"

Merrithorn gave Bramble a wink. The advice wasn't so much a dire warning as it was simple Long Patrol common sense, half said in jest. It was an altogether well known fact that the vermin weren't as skilled, well outfitted, or brave as a Long Patrol hare, and that one hare was worth ten vermin in every way! Every leveret received a veritable drilling in the proud history of the war victories of Salamandastron hares, and even now that his classes were far behind him, Bramble could recite the dates of battles, the names of the heroes who fought in them, and the awe-inspiring disparity between the numbers of dead hares and dead vermin. He thought with considerable pride that none of the battles he could call to mind resulted in more slain, heroic hares than loathsome, dead vermin.

Bramble was beginning to get so excited about the prospect of performing his duties as a proud soldier that his footpaws took on a far more jaunty step than was proper for an on-duty hare, and he had to look down and willfully slow his pace in order to prevent himself from outright skipping. He may have failed in calling this faux pas to a stop, but for the moment, Merrithorn was content to let Bramble have his fun. There was plenty of time to mold him into a more disciplined member of the Long Patrol during excursions that had some true military weight to them, rather than just being an outing to get some exercise and boost morale. Why ruin a perfect day with unnecessary strictness?

And what a day it was! Not a single cloud in the sky, but not yet possessed of the scorching summer heat that so often made ears and scuts droop by the end of lengthier hike. The sky was beginning to fade from its piercing brightness towards dusk, but aside from some gentle, peachskin shading of the horizon; the night was not yet rearing its head and contributing the gloom of darkness to the hike. Trees lining the dirt road provided shade aplenty to guard the patrol against the rays of the slowly descending sun in the meantime though, and birds flitted amongst the branches, returned from their winter migrations. To a peaceful denizen of Mossflower, few things could match the simple pleasure of hearing birdsong once more carrying through the tranquil land.

Ever since being inducted into the Long Patrol, Bramble had begun to see Mossflower in a different light. In its entirety he'd ceased taking it for granted, and instead let the true beauty and overwhelming bounty of the land fill his thoughts. With satisfaction he reflected on just how important his duties to Mossflower were, and just how essential the military might of Salamandastron was to protecting this peaceful countryside from the twisted fiends who sought to twist it into a home for their wicked devices. His life would be spent protecting this idyllic land from vermin undesirables and keeping it safe for generations of decent woodlanders. The thought was almost enough to make a hare weep with pride! Already Bramble was imagining the inevitable parade after the even more inevitable battle with some invading force of wretched vermin or nother. He imagined marching through Mossflower back home to Salamandastron in all his uniformed finery being cheered by veritable columns of grateful woodlanders, not a single vermin sight save for the occasional very very dead one who'd yet to be cleaned up. Naturally, in this fantasy construct, there wasn't a single hare lost, and not a single escaped vermin to worry about or mournful prisoner to push along. They were all dead, plain and simple, and even the corpses were made with all the most honorable methods. No disgusting tactics like the vermin themselves would employ: no opened guts, crushed faces, or bled-out beasts missing limbs. Every last dead vermin Bramble saw in his imagination was dispatched with a single, honorable, immeasurably quick sword thrust between the ribs. And of course, with such a quick and merciful death for those who hardly deserved it, none of the faces of the dead bore a mask of terror or agony. There were no popped eyes, wide open mouths, or features twisted by wracking pain to the very last breath, but instead, serenity and calm. The only dead bodies Bramble had ever seen were those of the old ones whose time had simply come, and who almost appeared to be sleeping within their caskets save for the lack of a steady rise and fall of their chests. Why shouldn't the end results of the battlefield look the same?

But before his imagination could move from victory marches to victory feasts, and as the front row of the patrol group was rounding a bend in the road, the booming voice of Lord Olbrieg sounded out. The normally patient badger's voice was now overcome with wrath and the dire need to fling himself without regard for life, limb, nor mercy into some great fracas.

"Vermin! Foxes on the road! Charge! Eulaliaaaaaaaa!"

It was at that moment that Bramble knew that he'd heard the sound of a voice overladen with Bloodwrath; vicious and absolutely unforgiving, a tone that he'd never forget to his dying day. It sent icewater chills down his spine.

Not more than a heartbeat after the badger lord's call to arms, the sergeants echoed the order to the bucks under their command, and Bramble heard Sergeant Merrithorn shout out in earnest, "C'mon lads! Sabers up! Chaaaaaaaaarge!"

Without even realizing it, and before he'd spotted a single brushtail, Bramble echoed the war cry, alternating between wordless shouting and fevered eulalias afterwards during the frenzied run. He drew his sword with the rest of his fellows and charged forwards alongside his fellow hares, every bit part of the unit, twenty-eight hares rushing onwards at the heels of a badger lord with a mind clouded by Bloodwrath. It was a sight certain to scare all the most impossibly stalwart vermin out of their hides.

The bend in the road was soon rounded and Bramble caught sight of what the badger lord did moments before. The enemy hove into view, a mere hundred paces or so away, and as Bramble beheld them his heart skipped a beat. He'd gotten his wish! Several cruel vulpines, their lips curled back in silent snarls, blades held drawn and aloft, were holding their ground before the onrushing Long Patrol squad, seemingly fully aware that they could not run, but no doubt willing to butcher every last hare in their way regardless.

And Bramble was just as willing to prove that such a thing was not so easy to do!


	2. Chapter 2: Not One Left Standing

"So, little 'un, jus' what was it ye were needin' t'show yer ole father so very bad?" Becnel put on a face of mock impatience as he addressed his son, Dachlan, who was nearly bouncing on his footpaws with eagerness to gain some approval from his father.

The expression failed to trick the younger vulpine, however, as the cub was too well trained in the arts of fox-flavored lying not to see straight through such a ruse. He continued to grin.

"Jus' wait, dad! Jus' ye wait!" and with that, Dachlan was gone, vanishing inside the covered cart that made up the home and trade of his family. Becnel peered inside, only able to see the tail of his son peeking up amongst the numerous spice and herb urns.

As he waited for his son, Becnel looked over at the other five vulpine families in the caravan. It was a rather gypsy-like life the group of them led; six groups traveling together, selling herbal remedies, trinkets, fortune telling, and providing physical labor so that they could get by. In that regard, Mossflower had been good to them, providing Becnel's trade with herbs aplenty for the remedies and cure-alls he and his mate made, and plenty of woodpidgeons, fish, and roots for when trade was lacking and living off the land was required. That moment was one of those times.

It was unfortunate, but the last town the caravan of twenty-five foxes tried to make residence in had turned hostile after some shrill shrew asserted that one of Becnel's mate's potions had made her deathly ill and must certainly have been poison. Nevermind that Mordet simply prescribed a fever reducer, that the shrew was perfrectly well enough to shout bloody murder at Mordet in the middle of the town square, or that if Mordet did want to poison someone, then they would be dead on the very first sip; the band of foxes were run out of town regardless.

Becnel shuddered as he remembered the thread that the Long Patrol would be summoned if they didn't make haste in their departure. With an absent mind, Becnel raised his paw to his missing eye and shredded ear, then dragged his finger along the scar that linked the two. He could still remember the Long Patrol pike that almost felled him, as well as the very thorough routing the horde he'd been press-ganged into received. To that day he was certain that playing dead was the only thing that saved his life and ensured that he returned to his mate and son after ten long seasons' worth of forced service. Becnel could still remember spotting the twisted corpses of some of those who he knew shared his position during the long walk through the sea of corpses after the Long Patrol and the tattered remains of the horde retreated.

It wasn't until his son tugged at Becnel's coat that he realized that he was staring off into space, deaf to the world. The sight was familiar to Dachlan, who even at that age knew that his father was troubled frequently by his musings when he was afforded too much time to dwell on the past. The feeling of loss that came from so many seasons of unwilling service to a warlord, ten seasons ensuring that he missed his son's first steps, a hefty chunk of the life he and his mate promised to spend together was acute. And to think that he should feel lucky that he only lost that.

Dachlan stood on the absolute tips of his toes as he thrusts the prize into his father's face, nearly cracking the tip of Becnel's nose on the label of the wine bottle.

Dachlan was excited to the point that he almost squeaked, "Damson wine!"

The wine was far exceeding the typical means of his family's living, and Dachlan was more than happy to explain just where it came from in advance of his father's inquirey, "I pinched it from that ole sticklepig crone right afore we left while she was buyin' a loaf of bread!"

Judging by his son's beaming face, he was expecting plenty of praise for his nimble-pawed acquisition, and damn the calamity that would've arisen if he'd been caught. Becnel's mind, however, was hardly on his son's cleverness, but rather he was imagining what might have happened had the theft been caught. He had his doubts that the woodlanders would be inclined to take much mercy on a cub whose family was being run out of town under accusations of poisoning. Even worse, Becnel knew _precisely_ who the damson wine was meant for, and it damn sure wasn't his lightfingered son. Becnel never met the mayor of that town, but he was certain that a mouse who refused to do anything about beasts being run out of town without justification would show much leniency concerning a vermin brat caught stealing. At the very least, Dachlan would have found himself imprisoned, and Becnel had a nagging suspicion that if there were to be some manner of "accident" that resulted in a broken paw, then the response would more than likely be a resounding "Oh well!"

Growing stern, Becnel crouched down and took his son by the shoulders, the pit in his stomach formed by overwhelming dread concerning the safety of his son causing him to squeeze a bit harder than he intended. Dachlan winced and squirmed, but Becnel held fast, giving his son a stern glare straight into a pair of eyes that were wide with confusion and apprehension. Dachlan's eyes darted around, trying to avoid looking into his father's, knowing full well that he was in trouble, and that this was something serious enough to actually require feeling guilt about.

"Why'd ye steal the wine, Dachlan? Answer me honest now!" Becnel was surprised to find that he was shaking. Hellgates, he was shaking more now than he did when he realized that he had a pike head trapped between his ribs and somehow survived.

Dachlan's ears pressed down against his skull as he was forced to weather the harsh questioning, and he could only mumble the rather weaky-reasoned response, "I jus'… I jus' wanted t'cheer ye an' mum up. I thought ye'd want t'celebrate when we got t'the new city… 'sides, that ole sticklepig was always mean an' she had more'n enough!"

Now that the parental worry full set in, all manner of scenarios involving his son being alone, afraid, hurt, hungry, or all four dancing through Becnel's skull like a coven of witches, Becnel's voice was rising in volume, gaining a razor-sharp edge to it that made Dachlan whimper, yet at the same time it kept cracking with emotional strain.

Vulpuz' breath! Please don't let his family be taken from him again!

"New ye lissen here and lissen damn good, whelp! I don't want ye t'ever steal from a woodlander agin, ye hear me? Don't ever give 'em a reason t'hate ye or hurt ye! Remember that yer a fox; ye've got 'un hell of a reputation, an' the woodlanders damn well know every inch of it by heart!" Becnel punctuated his tirade with a firm shake to Dachlan's shoulders that flopped his smaller frame around like a ragdoll.

By now, Mordet was listening in earnest, her ears ever keen to the sounds of her family, even while working on remedies over her cooking pot and with a four-month-pregnant belly. She shared the same instinctive worry as her mate, blanching under her fur.

By now, Dachlan was whimpering and hugging the whine bottle to his chest as though it were a doll that he could find comfort in. He still wasn't sure how the situation could have gone so awry and merely gave numb nods to his father as he spoke.

Finally, the harangue ended. "Now get yer tail back in the cart an' think about the danger ye put yerself in! I'll be out here decidin' whether or not yer getting' dinner t'night! Now git!"

With leaden footpaws, Dachlan trudged back to the cart, his tail dragging on the dusty road. At first he seemed as though he was far too limp to haul himself up into the cart, but slowly he managed to scrabble in and settle into the back of the cart in a morose and weepy stupor.

His father wasn't feeling much better. Becnel rubbed his forehead with the back of his paw and heaved out a rather hefty sigh. Shouting at his son was not something that he particularly wanted to do that day, and he was already starting to feel as though he'd handled the situation in a rather poor manner. Fox cubs stole things, that's just how the world worked, but Becnel knew that he overreacted just because he was scared that he would lose his son again. His cheeks burned with shame, but despite his concern for his lapse in judgement, he couldn't help but rationalize his fear. He knew that vermin who overstepped their bounds were seldom given mercy or a second chance in this world, and he was scared out of his mind that his son's theft would eventually lead him down the same dark path Becnel himself was forced down.

The only thing that ensured that Becnel made it out of the horde life he was pressed into was pure luck. What I fhis son wasn't so lucky? What if Dachlan's poor choices led to his last moments being spent slowly dying in agony in a ditch somewhere far away from everyone who cared for him? The thought wrenched at Becnel's heart, bringing on a weighted, sunken feeling all too similar to the one he felt late at night when the faces of the innocents he put his sword to at the behest of his captors cavorted around inside his skull. It was enough to send his paws to his face, his back turning towards the other foxes of the caravan so they couldn't see that he was suffering.

Whether or not they noticed, they ignored him and let their neighbor keep a small scrap of his dignity. But Mordet was unwilling to ignore the pains of his mate, knowing full well that he was far more delicate now that he was returned to her than when he was taken from her. She hoisted herself up out of the cloth seated wooden chair Becnel made for her in order to give her something better than the ground to sit on while she was pregnant.

Becnel felt Mordet lay a reassuring paw on his shoulder, but the gesture only made his posture stiffen, the urge to appear strong for his family unable to hide how he truly felt.

"Becnel?"

Mordet's voice was soft in tone, far softer than the typical rough grumble that she spoke in, concern for the male she'd pledged to live our her life with evident even in that single word. The tone wasn't unfamiliar to Becnel. Mordet tended to take on that manner of speaking whenever she was scared that a single harsh word would crumple him.

Mordet repeated herself, "Becnel, what's wrong?" And the grip on his shoulder was tightened ever so slightly.

"I jus'," began Becnel, still facing away from his mate. "I was jus' worryin' that I was too hard on the kit. That's all."

Mordet could tell when there was more on her mate's mind than he admitted, and in the same gentle tone as before, Mordet applied a bit more pressure for the truth. "Is that really all?"

"…No, not it's not. I'm terrified, Mordet. I'm terrified that ev'ry mistake I make's goin' t'push him away from me. I'm scared I'm goin' t'lose him by bein' a bloody wretched father."

Mordet was patient while she listened. She'd taken pains to learn patience for the sake of her mate, and she let him finish airing out his fears before she spoke, "Yer not goin' t'lose him, Becnel. Even if he doesn't get it now, when he's older, he'll know ye were jus' lookin' out fer him."

Becnel's paw sought out Mordet's, both of them connecting at the tod's shoulder, and for a moment they both stood there holding paws until again, Mordet broke the silence, "All that garbage about ye bein' a wretched father's not true anyhow. 'sides, ye can make it right if yer scared ye were too strict anyhow."

"What d'ye mean?"

"When supper's ready, take Dachlan a bowl an' talk with him. Both of ye will have had time t'calm yerselves by then."

Becnel bit his lip, dreading the encounter. What if Dachlan already decided that Becnel was detestable and that there was no hope that they could reconcile? Dachlan wouldn't be the first fox Becnel knew who'd come to despise his father.

When he didn't speak, Mordet added, "Ye love him. An' he loves ye jus' as much."

Becnel muttered, "Yer right… I know ye are, but I jus' can't stop thinkin' that somethin's goin' t'take Dachlan or ye from me. I can't live through that agin, I jus'…"

"Why d'ye think that?" interrupted Mordet, though she had a nagging suspicion that she already knew.

Talking about this sort of thing was difficult for Becnel, but by then the dam was broken, and the words came spilling out in a hushed, weary, and wounded tone.

"I did some awful things when I was in that horde, Mordet, sum real awful things! If fate were real, d'ye really think that it'd let me keep the both of ye? D'ye really think that a beast that took part in the slaughter of whole villages deserves a happy liddle family when… when he did his part in killin' the families of others? Dammit, I left mates an' cubs cryin' over bloody bodies!" Though Becnel's voice was still hushed, it had grown almost frantic in tempo, and his chest heaved with emotion.

Mordet had heard enough. This wasn't the first time Becnel riled himself up over his past, and she stepped around her mate and turned him to face her, took his face in her paws and stared straight into Becnel's damp eyes. In a firm whisper, she said, "Enough, Becnel! Enough! Ye weren't the beast givin' those orders, ye didn't join willin'ly. They had to threaten ye an' me an' Dachlan with pain an' death t'get ye t'do anythin'! It wasn't ye!"

But Becnel thought it was, despite the ardent reassurances of his mate. How many nights had he lain awake thinking about how different things could have been? There might be better beasts than him still alive if only he'd not been such a coward! He felt he should have had the bravery to risk desertion and the execution that would have followed if he'd been caught. Or, though he never would have dared to admit to Mordet, he felt he should have had the courage to outright defy the orders or simply fall on his own sword. Either would have been better than to be a warlord's implement of pain.

Ever the tactful vixen, Mordet couldn't know what her mate was thinking, but she could at the very least give him something he needed. Without a word she turned and pulled Becnel's paws around herself, her back pressed firmly against his chest. It took little more than that for Becnel's grip around her to tighten into an adoring embrace, with Mordet making both herself and their unborn cub an anchor for Becnel to hold onto.

With Mordet in Becnel's arms, there came yet another bout of silence, but this time the silence was not so terrifying or oppressive as before, and when at last someone spoke, this time it was Becnel, his mind much more at ease.

"So…" he bagan, his paws moving to rest lightly atop Mordet's stomach. "Does the cub feel like a tod or a vixen? Females always seem t'be good at guessin'."

His muzzle buried into the soft fur on his mate's neck, and Mordet's head tilted down to return the nuzzle as she answered. "I think the kit'll be a vixen this time. I've jus' got a feelin'."

Becnel let out atranquil sigh as he felt the kit making the barest movements inside Mordet's body. "Good… I'll bet she'll git her mother's beauty, an' her wit fer healin'."

A serene smile spread across Mordet's muzzle as the pair of them speculated on their kit. "An' she'll git her father's pretty eyes, an' his big heart."

By now, Becnel was feeling at peace enough that he didn't feel the need to correct Mordet that he only had one eye now, and that his heart couldn't be half as big as she thought considering his past. For now though, he was happy, and he let it pass without comment.

"Is Dachlan excited fer her, or scared? I still remember bein' a nervous wreck when my liddle brother was comin'," asked Becnel.

Mordet laughed. "He seems as ready as the rest of us. Coupla nights ago while ye were getting' firewood, he was pressin' his ear t'my belly an' tryin' t'talk t'the kit. Kept askin' what the kit's name was."

A laugh died in Becnel's throat and his body stiffened once more, his eyes fixed squarely down the road, wide as if the shades of the past truly had come to haunt him. Mordet could feel his paws shaking and twitching against her stomach, and she glanced up at her mate's terrified face.

"Becnel? What is it?" she couldn't help but let fear creep into her own voice, the reaction far too fast to be a simple return of her mate's distemper.

"B-bad… badger!" stammered out Becnel in gasps before calling out much louder. "Badger! Badger on the road!"

That outcry was loud enough for the other foxes in the caravan to hear, and an immediate scramble for weapons or anything that could be used for a weapon took place, those who were too young or two weak to fight being sent into the carts to hide. Not a single fox expected the badger dressed in full plate and armed with a great halberd to just pass them by. Stories about Bloodwrath and badgers were rampant in many vermin communities, and it served to turn them more into boogeybeasts than flesh and blood creatures.

"Mordet! Hide with Dachlan! Now!" said Becnel. The order was half between a frantic plea and a frightened demand.

Knowing full well that she could hardly fight or flee while pregnant, Mordet nod and did as her mate asked, loping behind the cart to hope for the best, silent prayers that she'd thought she'd long forgotten springing to her lips, every last one of them begging for the safety of her husband and her friends.

It was the work of a moment for Becnel to find his old sword and join the line of foxes protecting the caravan. He loathed the longsword in his paws, but it had simply been too good of a weapon to get rid of, and now Becnel was glad that he did keep the wretched thing around. Even just a quick look about showed that he was one of the only beasts who had any proper military weapon or any experience in an out-and-out fight. One vixen carried a pitchfork, a tod besides her clenched a set of gardening shears in a white-knuckled fist, one more squeezed a sledgehammer for dear life.

Most of the others could handle a tavern brawl or hold their own with a knife, but that was hardly the kind of fighting prowess that would get them far against a badger. Becnel swallowed a lump as he realized that some of these beasts, maybe many or most of them, would die. And certainly he could be amongst them. He'd seen multiple squads of hordebeasts die before they were successful in bringing a badger to his knees, and his mouth grew dry as he reflected on just how slim the caravan's chances were.

Dimly Becnel could hear the call to charge coming from the badger's side of the road, and then, loud and clear as a death knell in the still, frozen night air came a cry that made Becnel's body go numb.

"Eulaliaaaaaaaa!"

Then the badger was hurtling towards them, and with near thirty hares rounding the corner of the road in his wake! Thirty hares and a badger against a paltry twenty-one foxes! Thirty trained, martial hares against spice merchants, fortune tellers, traders, and handybeasts!

It was only pure shock that prevented Becnel from thinking that each and every one of them was going to die. The shock was such that Becnel forgot to breathe and simply held his breath during the charge.

Terror! He felt true terror as the badger came close enough for Becnel to see his eyes! The only other eyes Becnel ever saw that were so rage and hate filled belonged to the leader of the horde Becnel was press-ganged into after he'd publically executed a lieutenant plotting a coup! The badger's eyes were the eyes of a beast who was happy to spill the blood of those he declared his enemy, they were eyes eager for the red, obfuscating clouds of the Bloodwrath! Their owner wouldn't be satisfied until every last vermin lay bloody and dead on the ground.

The leather hilt of Becnel's blade creaked as his paws constricted around it, bracing himself for the inevitable crash between the onrushing Long Patrol and the defending foxes, calling out mere moments before, "Don't try t'block 'em! Dodge 'em!"

That good sense he recalled being given to a lightweight group of hordebeasts facing a charge was all the advice that Becnel had time to give before the badger's upraised, massive halberd fell and cleaved one of the defenders in twain from the shoulder across the chest. The other fox fell before he even had any time to scream. Slightly more luck was to be had when the hares connected with the front line of foxes. Nimble footpawed vermin were better able to guard against beasts closer to their own size, and they were already taking steps backwards by the time the hares reached them.

Several small skirmishes broke out inside of the larger battle as the foxes continually retreated and gave ground in a futile attempt to avoid injury, striking out only when there was no chance of being caught by the lengthier blades wielded by the Long Patrol hares. Every now and then a fox would land a glancing or wounding blow, but eventually they would be caught making some kind of fatal error, taking far more grievous injury than they were giving. They were too inexperienced in true war to know techniques that would trick the enemy or that took on high risk to yield greater rewards, and so they never had half a chance of gaining the upper paw.

Foxes began dying in droves as their steady dispatch led to a battle where more and more foxes were fighting two hares at once. There was little chance for a vermin victory when lashing out at one hare only brought on a sudden stab to the back or the flank from his friend.

Worst of all though was the havoc wreaked by the badger! No beast who he fell upon managed to do anything more than scurry around and prolong his own inevitable demise by that vicious halberd blade for a moment or two. Wherever the badger lord sought his enemy, they would fall back, until the foxes were pushed so far backwards that they were starting to bang their heels on their own campsites. In a desperate, last-ditch attempt undertaken far too late to have any hope of turning the tides, the foxes tried to push back against the hares and their great, ogre-ish demon of a lord.

Becnel found himself pushing forwards alongside the vixen with the pitchfork and the workbeast carrying the sledgehammer, but their path towards a thinner group of hares was blocked in short order. Like a great mountain of fur, flesh, and sinew the badger hoisted his polearm before them. Utterly desperate, Becnel lashed out with his sword, trying his hardest to cut open the badger's footpaw and hobble him so that they might at least have even a small advantage, but the only mark made from his risky onslaught was in dirt. The blade of his sword stuck in the earth where the badger's footpaw once was, and a savage kick plowed Becnel backwards, his sword twisting out of his paw and skinning his palm.

The vixen, trying her absolute best to help Becnel recover, thrust her pitchfork towards the badger's face, but he only had to rear up to his full height, and the prongs skidded off his chestplate. Before the workbeast with the sledgehammer could even pull his weapon back to try his luck at saving the lives of his fellow vulpines, their brief role in the battle was brutally ended.

The halberd fell once more and claimed the flesh and blood of three more vermin. The workbeast was utterly obliterated, the blade hacking straight through his body, a sickening crack sounding out as his spine was snapped and he fell to the ground in two pieces. Carrying through, the blade carved a trench in the vixen's rib cage after severing her arm, the impact of the weapon flinging her backwards as if she were hit by a battering ram, and a long peal of a scream echoed through the air. She would bleed out and die quickly when she hit the ground.

The halberd was swung by a champion wabeast of supreme strength, two lives snuffed out in a single swipe, but with three beasts hit. Becnel was last, being on the weakest and slowest part of the swing, yet he was too off balance from the bruising kick to dodge it. The very tip of the axeblade tore across his midriff, only stopping when the spearpoint of the weapon hacked into his ribs and became stuck.

At first, Becnel only gasped, unable to make a single noise, his entire body almost numb from the trauma of the impact, but then the blade was wrenched from between his ribs, and the agony came all at once in searing, tearing waves. Still standing, Becnel clutched at his ruined chest and stomach, feeling between his fingers the warm blood and… something almost slimy and slippery.

Becnel screamed. He screamed in an agonized rasp as his viscera spilled over his paw and slopped out onto the ground, feeling in his core a thoroughly torturous sensation as though he were somehow falling off a cliff, yet already able to feel the pain of hitting the ground and bursting before it happened.

Even as he stood there, feverishly attempting to hold the remaining guts in his split stomach, something flickered in the back of his mind, pain glazed eyes at once seeing both the body-filled road and the fuzzy, blurry past. He recalled through the pain and the sound of his own screams the time Becnel's own father and mother had taken him to a county faire when he was a young kit. He recalled how he was too frightened to ride the massive, polished wooden slide until his father guided him to the top and held Becnel in his lap as they went down. The amorphous regret that he'd never gotten to take Dachlan to a faire like that swam in the ocean of suffering within Becnel's skull.

A single shift of Becnel's footpaw and he fell, slipping on his own organs and landing heavily on his side, every last bit of air forced from within him and his screams ceasing with an abrupt finality. Now he could only choke and gasp, Becnel's suffering passing beyond his ability to show with his voice.

Unable to do anything but stare ahead and wait for death, Becnel could see the badger turn away after seeing what he considered the righteous vanishing of yet another foebeast, and just barely he could tilt his muzzle upwards the watch the armored back stalk towards the next victim.

_Oh no… No! No! No!_ flitted and trashed through Becnel's head as he saw Mordet peek out from around the corner of their cart, only to shriek when she saw Becnel's mangled body.

Acting on pure rage and instinct alone, all rational thought purged, Mordet dashed to the cooking pot she was working out of earlier, plucking it from the fire by its wrapped handle in one paw, and the other taking up the kitchen knife she was using to chop roots and herbs. Her paw moved backwards, a furious cry tearing from her throat as she prepared to lob the boiling emulsion onto the badger who'd slain her mate.

At the same time, her outcries roused the attention of one of the ranking members of the Long Patrol, and the sergeant shouted out, "Kill the demmed vermin! There! Now!"

Straining to force his broken body to move, Becnel's limbs twitched, keening huffs coming from his mouth as he tried his hardest to call out to his mate, to tell her to run, to hide, to do _anything_ but to stay and try to fight. He pled with fate, thinking that he would die a hundred times if only he could reach Mordet. Vulpuz himself could use him as a plaything if only she were spared!

Nothing came to spare Mordet though, and Becnel was forced to watch impotently as a young hare leapt to perform the orders of his superiors, approaching Mordet from behind… and thrusting his saber straight through her, the point of the weapon rupturing through her chest and a scream of pain tearing from her throat. The saber was pulled from her body and she fell face-first to the ground, writhing and moaning and trying to haul herself up to get away, though her arms kept giving out, forcing her to crawl on her elbows.

Helping Mordet being entirely out of his grasp, Becnel wept as he watched her suffer. With a frantic and panicked thrust, the hare stabbed Mordet again, bringing another cry of pain, but not death. He stabbed again and again, the cries growing weaker until; at last, Mordet lay still, her soul and the soul of her unborn kit fleeing her remains.

Yet Becnel's spirit remained, tethered to a body which shouldn't be able to support it. His spirit suffered in its ruined husk as he saw the blood of the vixen he loved so dearly running red into the dirt. Everything that mattered to him was gone, yet he remained! Mordet was dead, the kit who they'd had such high hopes for was never to be born, and Becnel was certain that the only mercy fate was showing him that day was that he didn't have to see Dachlan die. But against a foe that would kill a pregnant vixen, what were the chances that Dachlan weren't slain as well? Becnel knew for sure that his small body lay ravaged and bloody somewhere nearby, and he could only pray to any powers who were listening that he was no longer suffering.

The torment and sorrow Becnel felt; he was certain that it was fate's reward to him for killing innocents at the bidding of a warlord. For doing what he did, his family was taken from him in the most brutal ways, and he was dying in slow, burning, hellfire agony.

Digging his fingers into the dirt, Becnel began to drag himself towards Mordet's body, every inch feeling as impossible as moving a mountain and rewarding him with more pain for his troubles. Though he hoped to the depths of his soul that Mordet's anguish was ended, he was determined to clasp her paw, just in case. Becnel didn't want her to be alone if she were still dying, and even just being able to hold her lifeless paw would be a meager comfort to him and ease his passing.

Even this was to be denied to him. A hare stumbled backwards and fell as one of the last remaining foxes tried a final, vigorous assault that cost him a claymore chopping into his back. As the hare fell, the blade of his broadsword whipped out, lashing across Becnel's eyes, cutting through the bridge of his muzzle in the process. Utter blackness and white-hot pain joined as Becnel was blinded, no amount of frantic scrabbling allowing him to find the paw of his mate.

Left with nothing, he lay down his head, giving up, letting his body settle into corpselike motionlessness, regretting every misstep and evil he'd done in life, regretting the missed opportunities, regretting that many seasons' worth of time with Mordet and Dachlan were stolen from him. And most of all, he regretted that his last words to his son weren't of love, but of admonition and punishment. Becnel was certain that his son died thinking that his father loathed him after spurning the present he was attempting to give.

Silently Becnel begged for death to take him, wondering why he was still alive, starting to think that this might have been part of his judgment: a taste of the Hellgates before he even felt their heat. But by inches, an even greater darkness overtook the pitch-black nothingness of blindness, and Becnel's last remaining bit of life faded away with a whimper.


	3. Chapter 3: A Different Kind of Casualty

Bramble felt ill.

_What have I done? Oh heavens above what have I done?!_

Merrithorn told him quite plainly that he should sit and rest while the hares who weren't as affected handled the clean-up, but Bramble found himself alternating between absolute restlessness and pure fatigue. He'd pop out of his seat on the edge of the road and pace, aiming frustrated and angry kicks at the shrubs and dirt clumps, but after only a few minutes of this, he would sink back down to the ground, exhausted as though he'd spent an hour breaking rocks, his head in his paws.

Try as he might, he still couldn't avoid breaking another one of Merrithorn's orders either. Without Bramble's consent, his own eyes would keep making furtive flicks towards the numerous, bloody corpses laying about in the setting sun. And he especially stared at the one he'd made, the kill he'd wished for and that he'd gotten… or at least where that particular body used to be. After Bramble was ordered to sit down and take a breather without looking at the aftermath of the battle- _No, the slaughter_, thought Bramble- he'd taken a look over his shoulder and seen Merrithorn himself dragging the corpse of the vixen Bramble killed off to the woods to be disposed of.

Now the only evidence that she was even laying there in the first place was the rust-red stain on the placid brown road. Every time Bramble looked over his shoulder, he noticed another stain without a corpse covering it, and with a shudder he drew a conclusion as to why.

_They're removin' all the objectionable ones afore we get an eyeful and realized what we did._

That, as much as anything else, was evidence that they'd been given the order to charge in error, that they'd leapt to conclusions and some possibly innocent beasts died as a result. How many of these foxes were just traveling, harmless beasts? Were they otherwise decent, at least for vermin? How many of them were the villains that Lord Olbrieg thought he was leading a charge against? At this point, Bramble couldn't even be sure that any of them were.

He looked around at the other hares, most of them seeming to be happy with the way things turned out. Over twenty dead foxes and not a single dead hare! Certainly there were wounds, one or two even being fairly bad, but they were already being tended to by the field medics and being reassured that they'd be on their footpaws with nothing worse than a new scar to boast about. There were some other young hares, like him, but they were boasting about their kills, each of them trying to prove to another that the fox they'd put to death was a far more vicious monster than the one killed by the other. Amongst this set, there was no regard given to the makeshift weapons or the lack of skill of their opponents, instead it was all that they were so terribly talented from their long hours of training.

Had they truly not noticed what they'd taken part in? Bramble saw the veteran members walking around and congratulating the rookies on a job well done, telling them that Mossflower was a safer place now thanks to them. They mentioned again and again that the foxes they killed were all vicious bandits and cutthroats, that they were no doubt camped there in the hopes that some more defenseless woodlanders would come along and make themselves easy prey. They repeated all the old adages. Foxes were thieves to the core, the males were particularly vicious murderers, and the females were expert con artists and poisoners. Particularly they reinforced the notion that the gap in skill was the difference between shoddy vermin war skill and Long Patrol military excellence.

Regardless of these assertions, Bramble couldn't help but see that there was doubt just barely visible in the eyes of the veteran members. He knew that, once the battle was over, they were seeing things that the new recruits weren't, and Bramble could only assume that they thought that the charge might have been unwarranted and excessive. With that in mind, it almost seemed as though their assertions were as much for themselves as for the recruits, and in time the doubt seemed to fade.

Though Bramble didn't yet realize or understand it, he was witnessing beasts fooling themselves into thinking that they were justified in their actions. Bramble couldn't do the same for himself though. The reality was such a far cry from the idealistic imaginings from before! Why did it feel as though these thoughts were through his mind such a long time ago? The thoughts felt so distant now. Bramble knew that he was the one who'd thought them, and yet now they felt as though they belonged to an entirely different beast. How could he have thought things that foolish?! Death in battle wasn't noble nor dignified! It was painful and a wretchedly horrible thing to witness! Clean and bloodless blows didn't exist anymore in Bramble's mind; he now knew that when beasts were hurt or killed, they fell to the ground screaming and suffering!

Most especially this pertained to one he killed. Bramble shuddered at the memory of what he'd done. It wasn't like the stories he'd read at all where beasts were stabbed and they died without any fuss or pain. Bramble's former favorite story was now exposed to be as wrong as wrong could be. The story's final fight where the wicked stoat was slain by the brave, heroic mouse, and the stoat thanked the hero as he lay dying for ending his miserable life was rendered as nothing short of ridiculous. The beast Bramble killed wasn't in any such frame of mind; she wanted to hang on to the last threads of life she could! All that screaming and scrabbling…

Memories of a pair of veteran patrollers back at Salamandastron talking about bad orders flooded back to Bramble. He was still in training then, and he hadn't understood just what they meant or why they said it in the angry, worn-out tone they did, or why they stopped talking when they noticed that Bramble was listening. At the time he thought they were referring to poor tactical decisions, but now he knew the awful truth. Bramble had taken part in the same sort of bad orders that the older hares had without even realizing it.

Bramble could remember the pair asserting that whatever happened wasn't their fault, but if the situation were anything like the one Bramble was in, how could it not be? They were surely fooling themselves, and that wasn't something that Bramble could force himself to do. His superiors had given the order, but who'd actually killed that pregnant vixen? In the end, it was Bramble himself and no one else.

He panicked and killed that vixen in a brutal, painful way, and he couldn't blame anyone for that but himself.

All of a sudden Bramble caught himself feeling distant towards his fellow soldiers, or at least the other newbies fresh out of training. How were they able to just keep smiling after something like that? Was it because their kills went down easier? Or was it because they didn't care that they'd caused the sort of pain Bramble did? Could it be that the veterans were more easily able to convince them that they did the right thing despite all the evidence to the contrary?

The awful truth of the matter dawned on Bramble. Becoming a veteran of the Long Patrol wasn't measured in the quantity of battles one fought in or the number of vermin one killed, but rather in the realization that war was neither fun, adventurous, nor clean. In dashing his youthful hopes and dreams in the manner he did, Bramble unwittingly made himself into one of the more jaded soldiers of the Long Patrol.

None of the older soldiers tried to console Bramble, perhaps recognizing a lost cause that they themselves went through save for Sergeant Merrithorn. The others seemed willing to allow nature to take its course as Bramble faced true threats to the peace of Mossflower and allow him to settle into their own brand of delusion.

As Bramble's direct superior and the beast who'd given him those bad orders, Merrithorn was willing to at least make the attempt to boost morale and help Bramble sink into the illusion more gently.

"Well well, me lad," began Merrithorn, sitting down besides Bramble and looping an arm around his shoulder as though they were merely having a friendly conversation in the mess hall rather than a pep talk at the edge of a killing field.

The way his arm lay across Bramble's shoulder felt wrong though; tense, overly deliberate, and Merrithorn's voice was much the same. He was forcing himself to be cheery and he wasn't overly good at it.

Bramble squirmed a bit under his superior's touch. "…Yes, sah?"

"We certainly gave the ruddy vermin a good routing, wot!" said Merrithorn, the forced cheer pervading every last syllable.

Bramble opened his mouth to say something, but Merrithorn cut him off before a single word could escape.

"Bunch of bandits, I'd say!" Merrithorn said. It was clear, almost obvious that he was trying to nullify Bramble's guilt over killing the vixen and her unborn kit. "Demmed lucky thing we came across the bloomin' lot before they could waylay some innocent creatures who couldn't fight them off."

There was that familiar refrain again, and it was sounding more and more false every time Bramble heard it. Now that he'd heard it enough, Bramble was starting to remember the preemptive guilt absolution during training classes. How many times had the class been reminded that vermin were uniformly vicious and that they would gladly slaughter anybeast they thought they had an advantage over. Bramble couldn't be fooled by that anymore though, and he thought that it could very well be because of the gravity of his own crime. That vixen he'd killed… doing something like that made him at least as bad as any of the vermin those lessons focused on. Bramble began to wonder if he'd be easier to delude if he'd killed one of the scary, armed tods. Would that have been more palatable?

"Young Bramble, you did a right proper job of protectin' the flank of our commander, wot." Merrithorn gave Bramble a hefty thump on the back, but his voice still sounded somewhat hollow. "Right excellent work!"

The time, Bramble couldn't let the falsehood stand. "But sah, I didn't have to kill her like that! I could've done something else!"

Merrithorn tried to simply disregard the contention with a wave of one paw. He was hoping that he could subvert the aftershock of what Bramble had done, or at least mitigate it.

"Yes you did. It was necessary," said Merrithorn.

Now Bramble's voice rose in volume, and his chest heaved with the passion that came from the guilt for his crime. "But the vixen was pregnant! I killed 'em both!"

Merrithorn's spine went rigid, and for a brief moment he looked fully prepared to clap a paw over Bramble's muzzle in order to prevent him from further babbling and airing out a less than proud moment for the Long Patrol to everyone. His hesitation allowed Bramble to shout out more panic and guilt-ridden doubts.

The young hare's eyes were wide and his paws were thrown up into the air in turmoil. "I don't even know if they really were bandits! Wouldn't we have tried to protect our families too?!"

This time Bramble did get a paw over his mouth, and Merrithorn's other paw grabbed hold of the younger soldier's shoulder and pulled him around so they were facing each other. Now Merrithorn's voice was gave, hushed, stern, and lacking of any of the joviality that he was known for, transformed into the voice of somebeast who was trying to keep the situation from falling apart in its entirety. He was desperate to maintain control.

"Now listen up and listen close, lad!" said Merrithorn. "You need to put that out of your mind right this second. I won't have you upsettin' the rest of the unit with this. Whatever the state of that vermin, she would've bloody stabbed the lot of us in the back the second she got the chance! So would the rest of 'em! They're vermin. That's what they do! Never ever forget that you're in the Long Patrol to protect those who can't protect themselves, and if that means getting' rid of most every bloomin' rat, stoat, fox, and ferret you come across, then so bloody be it! Am I understood, Private Bramble?"

Merrithorn still didn't take his paw off Bramble's muzzle, leaving the younger hare with no other choice but to give a shallow nod, a pit in his stomach as he told an absolute barefaced lie, his ears unable to help but droop. As soon as he did though, Merrithorn removed his paw from Bramble's muzzle, and a great deal of tension left the sergeant's shoulders.

"Good lad," said Sergeant Merrithorn, his voice softening. "Don't worry, it's just a case of the post-battle jitters. Eventually you'll take what I said to heart."

Would he? Bramble didn't think so; nor would he ever forget the terrible thing that he'd done, however much Sergeant Merrithorn tried to convince him that he was in the right.

He couldn't look at the sergeant any longer, and so instead his eyes stared beyond, focusing on the caravan that was now without an owner, though he tried to avoid looking at the gutted male fox whose body was being dragged off into the woods to be disposed of.

"Set fire to the carts!" ordered Lord Olbrieg. "We're not leaving them here to be taken by other vermin, and I refuse to make use of whatever ill-gotten gains they're filled with!"

One of the other hares already had a torch ready, and soon enough a few other hares were snapping dead branches off trees and carrying their own improvised torches. Once one of those torches touched the covered cart, it was not long before the fire spread to engulf it.

Bramble felt a pit in his stomach as he realized that not only were they burning what used to be the livelihoods of these slain vulpines, they were also burning the evidence that they ever existed. By now, all Bramble could do was hope that it wasn't truly an attempt to hide what transpired on the road, and that such a thing was merely the unfortunate byproduct of a moral stance, however flawed.

The last cart ot be lit was the one nearest to the dark splotch of blood where the vixen Bramble slew used to lay. He watched the fire spreading over the cart, crawling up the canvas far faster than it ate away at the wood. A sudden movement shook a few embers from the canvas, and Bramble sunk his buck teeth into his lip as he hoped that what he saw was just the wind. Heavens above, after everything that happened, Bramble wasn't at all prepared to see somebeast burn to death.

The canvas shook once more, and a small bulge grew on one side, then shrunk again. There was most certainly somebeast in there, but Bramble had no idea what to do. Before this battle, he would have called attention to it, gotten them help from somebeast and likely would have ended up with a captive, but at this point, Bramble had lost faith entirely in the judgment of the Long Patrol. He was terrified that they might outright execute the hiding beast, and then that would be another death on Bramble's paws. Yet if he did nothing, they would burn.

He couldn't decide what to do, and he found himself trapped between the decision to reveal the vermin or let them burn. The quandary made Bramble feel sick… and then he knew what he should do.

Bramble took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his paws, and then after he was sure that no one was paying attention to him yet and were just watching the fires, he stuck a paw down his throat. The retching began immediately, and Bramble had just enough time to remove his paw from his muzzle before he found himself on his paws and knees. The noise and the half-digested rations splattering onto the grass on the side of the road certainly got the attention of the rest of the Long Patrol. Before Bramble was even finished, he was flanked on all sides by concerned and curious hares.

The new recruits looked confused while the veterans were already starting to mutter things about, "Another case of the post-battle nerves, wot."

Automatically, Bramble answered the routine questions of the medic, drank water when it was offered to him… but what he was really paying attention to was the burning cart, watching it out of the corner of his eye and hoping that whoever was inside it would take the chance to escape. Something tumbled out of the cart, and Bramble must have let out a sigh that sounded like another dry heave, because the medic scooted back a couple steps and reached out to brace Bramble's shoulder as if he expected him to faint.

As the beast stood, Bramble could see that it was a fox kit, his fur still smoldering slightly from being too close to the fire. Bramble's heart grew heavy and he realized that it was more than likely that the kit's parents were taken by the slaughter. He had no idea how the kit was going to survive, but he hoped that he ran far away and didn't look back; that he'd run off to somewhere safer.

Bramble didn't want to believe that the other hares in the Long Patrol would kill a cub, but his confidence in their morals was damaged too severely to think clearly about his comrades.

The kit raised his paw to his muzzle, and Bramble forced himself to cough to cover the coughing fit of the kit. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the kit looked over the scene of desolation before him. Even as far away as Bramble was, he could see that the kit was utterly destroyed by the sight, his eyes fixed on the body of a tod who'd been gutted and left half dragged off into the woods. The kit's small body shook with fear and sorrow, and for a time he was stunned, rooted to the spot as he looked at the body of who Bramble presumed to be the kit's father.

Bramble's heart pounded in his chest as he silently begged fate to make the kit run before he was noticed. Already hares were breaking from the group and starting back to their task of hauling bodies into the woods, and it was only because the kit's body was covered in dark soot from the canvas that he hadn't yet been noticed.

The hares resuming their activities tore the cub's attention away from the older fox's corpse, and with a panicked gait, he began to flee, running into the woods as fast as his footpaws could carry him. Soon, all that was left was a rustle as the plants shook in his wake. By the time anybeast turned their head towards the sound, the kit was long gone.

Because he was "sick", Bramble was allowed to sit on the side and just watch as the corpses were all hauled off, and the rest of the work proceeded without event, barring one or two more incidents of the shakes amongst the newer soldiers. Overall though, spirits were high. The delusion of the veteran patrollers had spread , and the younger hares were starting to feel the warm glow of victory. To most of them, the victory over the "bandits" was due to the considerable skill imparted onto them by their teachers, and why shouldn't they, therefore, enjoy the right to brag about their victories against their foes?

Bramble was amongst the scarce few who were less than jubilant about their victory, though he failed to notice, far too wrapped up in his own distrust and turmoil over his misdeeds. The others who failed to be enthusiastic about the victory were in much the same position as Bramble. They were the ones who'd gone too far into the battle and come out the other end with innocent blood on their paws. In the rush of battle and after receiving the order to kill, they'd killed those were many seasons younger or older than they were, or those who were sick and weak.

Bramble had killed both a beast who was too weak to be a threat and one vastly too young to be any part of a battle. But a short distance away was another forlorn hare guilty of slaying a beast who was too ill to fight, and another who'd felled an aged beast who could have just as easily been disarmed and captured. Maybe if they could see outside of their own guilt they could see that they could find some small measure of comfort with the others, but it was not to be.

It was too a hard lesson for all of them that war wasn't pretty nor fair, and that a single mistake or over application of force could take the life of a beast who didn't deserve to die… or an entire caravan of them.

Once the work was done and the carts quite burned, it was time for the march to continue. Bramble was glad that they would be leaving this horrible place, and he was one of the first to fall in when the order was given. The other recruit hares of the Long Patrol likewise fell in, assembling into a proud marching column.

It was rotten luck for Bramble that it was not yet time to start the march. Now that they were all caught in a snare in the shape of a military marching group, the badger lord decided that it was time for a hearty, inspirational speech.

Before now, Bramble thought that Lord Olbrieg was such a regal and respectable figure, but now? Now Bramble found him terrifying. Not only had he taken on the Bloodwrath so willingly, he didn't seem to display even the slightest remorse or regret for it, nor any sympathy for those who'd died. Could he really not be aware of what transpired on this road? Bramble shuddered and found himself hoping the dire hope that Lord Olbrieg wasn't pleased that vermin innocents were killed.

The badger lord's voice was strong, booming out as he spoke, a proud smile on his face as he addressed the next generation of the Long Patrol. "My young hares, today you can call yourselves true Long Patrol soldiers without question, and after a battle with not a single hare casualty! Lady Cregga Rose Eyes would be proud were she still alive!"

Of course Lady Cregga would be mentioned. Lord Olbrieg idolized her and her exceptional capacity for Bloodwrath, as well as her particular loathing for vermin. Her methods before he eventual retreat to Redwall were lionized and expounded upon by Olbrieg, and he would train his Bloodwrath to reach greater and greater heights, rather than trying to suppress it as many of his forebears did. As a result, what started as being merely average became exceptional, and often absolutely terrifying in its destructive capacity.

Lord Olbrieg allowed the young hares to chatter to each other for a moment, most of them reveling in the praise bestowed upon them from their lord. It further shook moral doubts from their minds, and they were quite convinced that had they truly done anything wrong, their badger lord wouldn't have praised them for it.

The badger lord held up his paws and young hares fell silent once more. "Never forget that today you've wiped more of the scum of the earth from Mossflower! Vermin like these are a plague, and each one of you has the opportunity to act as a healer!"

The hares who were emboldened by the battle as well as the ones who'd been convinced that they were in the right all cheered. The lessons they'd learnt about vermin in their classes and the subsequent training were validated, any lingering bad feelings about killing other beasts fading away completely. After all, they were hardly the first young woodlanders to be told that the vermin they'd killed deserved it or that there wouldn't have been any mercy if the tables had been turned.

The few whose concept of what they'd been taught was shattered by the realities of the battle and the awful things that they'd done cheered because they didn't see any other choice. After all, what was done was done, and there wasn't any good to be done by being singled out as the dissenting voice amongst the brave majority.

Merrithorn in particular looked perturbed, though he was careful to stand towards the back where none of the younger hares could see that the joviality was entirely gone from his eyes and he cheered in the most hollow manner. Perhaps he would have liked to tell some of the new recruits that things were different not too terribly long ago, but fomenting such dissent was, in his mind, far against the ethos of the Long Patrol.

Even moreso than killing vermin who may not have deserved it.

"When all of you are old veterans telling your grandchildren about the good that the Long Patrol has done for Mossflower, you'll remember this day as the day you began to help in that cause!"

The young recruits' attention was thoroughly captured, and the veterans took the opportunity to start erasing this shameful event from prying eyes. They ran back to the nearest junction with another road, fortunately not so far away, and began to pull down branches of trees. Two pairs of hares also set to work at chopping down a couple of trees and letting them fall in the road where the evidence lay. In a few seasons, as long as the trees weren't cleared, the entrance to the road could be entirely hidden, as would the exit as they marched off that road.

Back at the scene of the slaughter, the speech was still ongoing. "Someday Mossflower will be safe and free of the threat of vermin forever! Your dibbuns and their dibbuns' dibbuns will be free from their menace forever!"

Again, the subtle lessons from his classes and trainers came back to Bramble. He wasn't foolish enough to think that vermin were necessarily _good_, but was Lord Olbrieg talking about getting rid of them by killing them, or just rounding them up and shoving them out of Mossflower? The second part may not be so objectionable; after all, Mossflower did rightfully belong to woodlanders, and vermin were ousted before, but to suggest outright killing that many beasts?

Regardless, the other recruits were beginning to feel the heady rush brought on by the authority of an idolized commander, and they would periodically cheer as Lord Olbrieg spoke. They were prepared to follow their lord to the absolute ends of the earth in order to liberate Mossflower from vermin for all eternity. Or at the very least, some of them were willing to go along with the beasts they'd trained with from a very young age.

"Not one of them left!" called out Lord Olbrieg. "Every last vermin out of Mossflower, or in Mossflower forever below the ground!"

The cheers grew louder, the volume growing to a roar despite the number of young hares only being in the low twenties. They were ready and loyal. Bramble forced himself to cheer as loud as the rest, ignoring the pit in his stomach. He knew now that he was in for the long haul, and that however much he hated himself for doing so, he knew that he couldn't turn his back on the Long Patrol.

As the cheering died down and the call to march was made, with the older members meant to catch up later, Bramble found that he could no longer keep his head held high during the march. No longer did the road back home look so beautiful in the twilight sun, and no longer did the parade bear any of the pride that he'd imagined such a short time ago.


End file.
